The First Escapade
by annwitch
Summary: Set during S:TM, its the first time Clark saves Lois, told through Lois's POV. Oneshot.


**The First Escapade**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Superman, Lois, Clark, the Daily Planet, Perry White, Jimmy Olsen, spell check, or anything else I might mention in this story. Heck, I don't even own this plot. As far as I know, Warner Bros and DC comics own everything.

**A/N:** This oneshot is based almost entirely on, in my opinion, where Superman: The Movie really begins, when Clark starts working at the Daily Planet. It is the first time Clark saves Lois, told through Lois's POV. Some liberty is taken with the actions, and one part is my addition to the movie, what happens during Clark's first day. This is the first fanfic I've completed, so reviews are greatly appreciated. Thanks!

* * *

I was so scared.

That's right, I admit it, I was scared. Laugh all you want, but what happened to me scared me out of my wits. Sure, I probably won't be scared _now_, seeing how _he's_ around, but back then there was no one to cry out to, no one that we could call "savior".

The "incident", as I now put it, happened a few years ago. It happened, in fact, the day that a certain mild-mannered reporter came to work at the Daily Planet.

The day started out as usual; Jimmy Olsen, the junior photographer that idolizes me on a semi-scary level, was taking pictures of the busy office. I was writing an article about the East 19th Street murder spree, an article I was sure to get front page news.

I had to ask Jimmy about how to spell "massacre" and "bloodletting". I hate to admit it, but I'm probably the worst speller you could ever find, even today. In fact, that's what I'm known for. Not all my hard-hitting investigative stories, not my take-no-prisoners type of reporting, but the fact that I can't spell to save my life. The fact that if I was in a spelling bee with a bunch of third graders, I would lose. Miserably.

All I can say now is, thank goodness for spell-check.

I finished my story and immediately ran it to Perry, confident of its front-page worthiness, excited to get a front-page byline and hopefully banishing my reputation as unable to spell anything.

As I ran it to Perry, Jimmy asked me in his usual boyish manner, "Boy! How come you get all the great stories, Lois?"

Blowing him off, just like any other reporter, I replied with both Perry's and my mantra, "A good reporter doesn't get the great stories, Jimmy. A good reporter makes them great."

To my surprise, as I was opening the door to Perry White's office, I heard him finish that particular mantra the same exact moment I did. But that moment of surprise quickly passed as I handed him my article.

"Here's the story on that East 19th Street murder spree. Page one with a banner headline seems about right to me," I said, perhaps a little too cockily. I didn't even notice the man standing in the corner of the office, watching me with some sort of intent.

"So why should today be different…" Perry muttered under his breath, almost too quiet for me to hear it. "Clark Kent, say hello to Lois Lane," Perry said, gesturing to the man in the corner.

I practically jumped back in surprise, I'm ashamed to admit. To think that me, an investigative reporter, missed a six foot man in almost plain sight! At the time, I was almost put out by missing such an obvious sight, but I've accepted it more now, because Clark has a way of blending in, being inconspicuous. A striking contrast to what I'm used to, seeing how most reporters are the most loud and obnoxious people on the earth.

Clark Kent. What is there to say about him, except that he is the most mild-mannered reporter I have ever known. Maybe even the most mild-mannered man. You know what? You look up 'mild-mannered' in the dictionary, and you see a picture of Clark Kent. He's over six-foot, probably about six foot four. Nobody ever really knows, as he is perpetually slouching. He has black hair, always neatly parted. But the most distinctive feature is his large, thick-framed glasses. Some days I just want to rip them off and yell at him "Get some contacts!" It would definitely make an improvement; I'll bet that he would look almost handsome without them.

Anyways, Clark, the picture of perfect Midwestern manners, stood up and shook my hand, "Hello Lois."

Like with Jimmy, I blew him off. How could I not? He wasn't outgoing, and my one-track mind was focused on what I was sure as the story of the year, which, as I found out the very next day, wouldn't be even close. "Hi there," I said to Clark, and then turned back to Perry, "Believe me, Chief, it's got everything. Sex, violence, the ethnic angle-"

"So does a lady wrestler with a foreign accent," Perry said, cutting me off curtly. He struggled with opening a bottle of soda, and then turned to Clark, noticing his tall and slightly bulky, almost muscular frame. "Here, Kent. Open this, will you?"

Clark took the bottle half-heartedly, and started straining to open it. I didn't want him to embarrass himself any further, so I took the bottle from him, banged it on Perry's desk a few times, and gave it back to Clark.

"Chief, this could be the basis for a whole series of articles - 'Making sense of senseless killings', you know? We could get psychiatrists, sociologists, interviews with the families..." I said, continuing on with trying to push my story.

"Lois, you're pushing a pile of rinky-dink tabloid crap. The Daily Planet has a tradition to-" Perry said, but then was cut off when Clark finally was able to open the bottle, but then was rewarded with a shower of soda that spilled out over the top.

I felt so bad, causing Clark even more embarrassment. He didn't look like a guy that would be able to take a hit to his self-confidence. "I'm sorry. I didn't shake it up on purpose," I apologized to him.

To my amazement, Clark just smiled at me and answered, "Of course you didn't, Lois. Why would anyone want a total stranger look like a fool?"

His sincerity surprised me; I thought that maybe he would hold a grudge over me for the rest of our days at the Daily Planet. You know, I spilled soda on him the first day, he tries to ruin my career. Stuff like happens in the realm of reporters. Well, at least, stuff like that happens to me.

Perry relieved Clark from the overflowing soda bottle, and told me, "Lois, take Kent out there and introduce him around. He's coming to work for the paper. I'm putting him on the city beat."

I was aghast at this. The city beat was my beat! I told Perry so, and he just answered in his simple, you _will_ do what I say manner, "The competition'll do wonders for you. Listen. Not only does this guy show proper respect for his editor-in-chief…" Perry glared at me, daring me to snap back at him. "…Not only does he have a snappy, punchy prose style, but I swear to you that after forty years in the business he is the fastest typist I have ever seen."

I almost snorted, I thought that being a fast typist wouldn't count for anything. It was just a skill, something that you got from typing over and over again. Nothing to be proud of, and certainly nothing to be hired for. And although I restrained my snort, I couldn't help but roll my eyes.

But then I saw Clark, the look on his face filled with hope and just a genuine good as he said, "I'm sure I can learn a lot from you, Lois." Then he turned back to Perry, and handed him a slip of paper. "Oh, Mister White, could you arrange for half my salary to be sent on a weekly basis to this address?"

I knew that this nice-guy guise was too good to be true, or so I thought. "Your bookie?" I asked.

"My what?" Clark asked, a look of genuine confusion crosses his face as he turned to me.

I rolled my eyes, convinced that this was an act to make himself seem more innocent and trustworthy and God knows what else. "Don't tell me. He sends a check every week to his dear grey-haired old mother," I said to Perry sarcastically.

"Actually, she's silver-haired," Clark said, catching me by surprise. Surprisingly enough, he was the real deal. The one hundred percent, corn-fed, Midwestern gentleman that you only heard of in chick flicks and bad romance novels.

So of course I had to ask, "Are there any more at home like you?"

Clark smiled secretively to himself, "Not really, no." I always wonder why he was smiling like that when he said it, like it was a little joke to himself that only he got.

The rest of my day at the Daily Planet went just about normal; I uncovered corruption in the public office and wrote a story about yet another tragic crime that involved a deranged criminal and the killing of a defenseless woman. Normal stuff, at them time. Nothing like that happens now. Except for, you know, political corruption. I don't think anyone, not even _he_, could stop that.

Every time I revealed another senseless crime, though, it seemed that Clark got more and more depressed. By lunch, he looked like he would almost start to cry. Or, a more plausible situation, go to some private place and start to brood.

Immediately I went into cheer-up mode, seeing how a depressed reporter is a bad reporter, and, although I hate to admit it, I liked the competition Clark gave me. It helped me push harder and write even better hard-hitting articles. "Hey Clark, listen. All this bad stuff? Not your fault. No offence or anything, but I seriously doubt that you could save them."

I admit, that little confidence-booster of mine had a sting in the tail. But I guess I thought Clark could handle it, or at least look a little less depressed. But his reaction surprised me.

He suddenly squared his shoulders and stopped slouching, his posture instantly perfect. A steely resolve flashed in his eyes, which surprised me so much that I gasped, drawing attention from the other reporters. He looked so different, like a mask had come off. Come to think of it, he sort of looked like _him_…

But really, Clark Kent? Yeah, right. Anyways, Clark took an immediate attitude changed, and started radiating confidence, something that I thought never would happen. "Someone should. And if that person has the power to do such good, don't you think they should help?"

This question was so out of the blue, all I could do was stammer out, "Of-of course!" And then, my mind replaying to a movie that I had recently seen, I smirked and said, "After all, with great power comes great responsibility."

He then looked at me, confused, and looked around wildly at all of the other reporters, and quickly reassumed his slouch and meek demeanor. "Sorry Lois, I don't know what came over me!" Clark stammered out as he pushed his glasses up his nose, which were sliding down. I don't think he got the Spiderman innuendo.

I was immediately curious about the man who was Clark Kent, so I did what I thought was the best course of action- I asked him to take a lunch with me. His face immediately lit up like a child's at Christmas, making me feel bad. I was just curious about who he was, I didn't feel anything towards him. I was- and still am- sure that Clark Kent has a gigantic crush on me.

"Great," a smile plastered on my face when Clark accepted the invitation. "So, lets go to, say, that sandwich shop on the corner? I'm feeling like having a sandwich." Really, I wanted a hot dog, but that just didn't feel professional enough.

"Gee, that'd be swell, Lois!" Clark answered, happiness so obviously written across his face.

I grimaced at his use of the word "swell", but I ignored it and walked to the elevator. Clark quickly walked after me, but then got caught in the doors. I sighed and pulled him through while he apologized to the occupants in the elevator, looking extremely sheepish.

"Gosh Clark, haven't you been in an elevator before?" I asked him sarcastically.

"Actually Lois, before today, I haven't ever used an elevator," Clark said sincerely to me as he looked around, astonished at something that was just a nuisance to me, a normal part of day-to-day life.

I met his astonishment and doubled it; I couldn't believe that anyone could go without using an elevator for so long. "Really? How have you ever gotten around? Did you fly?" I asked, teasing him.

Clark, weird enough, suddenly got all nervous and pulled at his shirt collar with his finger. "Fl-flying? Of course not Lois. Its just that, gosh, there aren't that many elevators in Smallville, Kansas. Golly, I don't think that there are any!" he said earnestly.

The elevator stopped and we all got out, and Clark managed to get caught in the door- again. I took his hand and pulled him out, causing him to blush. I guess he was uncomfortable holding my hand, because as soon as he was free from the elevator, he dropped it like a hot potato.

"Smallville, huh? So, I'm assuming that its small, right?" I teased him, but he took it as a serious question, judging by the way he pushed his glasses up his nose.

"Well, its not that small. We have a population of 25,001 people," he said proudly. "It's the corn capital of the world."

I rolled my eyes at this, and then pushed through the revolving doors that led out to the streets of Metropolis.

Clark seemed to have a general problem with doors, because he, once again, got caught.

"Gosh, Smallville, do doors not like you or something?" I asked him, calling him by his hometown. For some reason, it just seemed like it fit him. I quickly started walking towards the small sandwich shop on the corner.

"Smallville?" Clark asked, and then started walking after me.

"Yeah, its your new nickname. You do know that I give nicknames, right?" I said over my shoulder as I pushed open the door to the sandwich shop. To Clark's credit, he did manage to enter this door without any problem. Maybe its just doors that require some amount of timing that Clark has trouble with, I don't know.

"You know, Lois, I'm not the only one who's lived in Smallville," Clark said indignantly.

"If you see another Smallvillian in Metropolis, tell me, and I'll stop calling you Smallville," I answered him before I told the high school employee of the sandwich shop my order, which Clark followed with his order.

We got our sandwiches and sat down at a table near the front. I ravenously dug into my sandwich; my breakfast consisted of a coffee- granted, it was a venti latte, but I couldn't survive on coffee alone. Clark looked at me curiously, then started eating his own sandwich.

"So, Smallville, what brings you to Metropolis? More specifically, why are you working at the Daily Planet? No offence or anything, but you don't really seem like the reporter type," I asked him between bites.

Clark swallowed his bite of the sandwich, and then cleared his throat. "Well, I dunno, I guess I just always wanted to know what the news is, and my high school English teacher told me I have a knack for writing, so I decided to go into journalism. And the Daily Planet? Well, I've always respected it," Clark answered.

I snorted. What a crock of bull! Or so I thought. "Yeah, you and every other person who's joined the Planet. So really, what's the reason?"

Clark hesitated. "I just have always had this drawn to current events, to tragedies and big news. What better way to keep track of them than to work at the Daily Planet?" he confessed. This already seemed like a much more credible reason, and his sincere face confirmed it. It felt like he was still holding something back, but I dismissed it.

We quickly finished our sandwiches, only making some polite chitchat, asking questions but not really listening to the answers. I think we talked about his parents and life growing up, and my dysfunctional family and general life as an army brat. I wasn't really paying attention; my mind was on the topic of my next story, or, more importantly, the lack of breaking, in-your-face, _great_ stories.

When we finished we quickly got up and made our way back up to the Daily Planet newsroom, Clark once again getting stuck in both the revolving door and elevator. The rest of the workday happened without incident, there was nothing different from any other day except it was Clark, and not Jimmy, who was answering my questions about the spelling of words.

The day ended, and Clark followed me out as I left. Once again, as it was becoming habit, he got stuck in the revolving doors. I ignored it, and asked him, "Well, Clark? So how did you enjoy your first day on the job?"

Clark paused slightly and answered after checking his watch, "Frankly the hours were somewhat longer than I expected, Lois, but then... meeting you and Jimmy and Mr. White - on the whole I think it's swell."

It was that word again. Swell. Finally, I said what was bugging me the whole day. "Swell. You know, Clark, there are very few people left in the world these days who sound comfortable saying that word… 'Swell.'"

Clark looked at me, confounded. "Really? It just sort of comes naturally to me."

I shook my head, unable to believe the naïve act he was showing. I walked down the street, Clark trailing at my heels. All of the sudden, I heard the click of a gun being cocked.

"All right. Freeze. The both of you. Get in here," a gruff voice said at the end of the gun.

Just like he said, I froze. It wasn't the first time I heard a gun being cocked, and it wouldn't be the last. But I still get freaked out every time I hear it. Clark, just as amazed as I was, froze too. I quickly looked around, but I saw no one around except for Clark and the guy with the gun. Not the two I'd exactly want to be around, no offense to Clark.

"Better do as he says, Lois," Clark said nervously, following the gunman into the alley, pulling me in. I could not believe how stupid he was, going into an alleyway. I would have run, but Clark's strong grip pulled me with him. Gosh, he's strong.

Clark, unbelievably, started trying to talk the mugger out of robbing us blind. "Listen, mister. I realize times are tough for some these days, but… This isn't the answer. You can't solve society's problems with a gun."

The funny thing about Clark's speech is that, it seemed like he actually believed that. It sounded so sincere. I looked at Clark with disbelief. This is how you're stopping him from mugging us? I'd trust a monkey with a stick more!

Apparently the mugger was as disbelieving as me. "You know something, buddy? You're right. I'm turning over a new leaf."

Clark grinned, oblivious to the mugger's sarcasm. "That's the spirit." He started walking away, but then the mugger shoved his gun in Clark's face.

"Right after I rip off this lady's purse," the mugger said, and then directed his attention to me. "Now hand it over."

At this point, I was terrified out of my wits. A gun was shoved in my face, and my only protection was a bumbling excuse of a reporter named Clark Kent, the fasted typist Perry has ever seen. Extremely reassuring.

I looked over at Clark, who looked scared out of his wits. At that moment, I knew that I had to be strong for Clark. I started to hand over my purse, but then I let it drop, causing the mugger to lean over and try to pick it up. Then, I did the unbelievable. I kicked him in the face.

The mugger brought his gun up as Clark screamed, "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" But it was too late, the mugger fired his gun, and then ran away, leaving my purse on the ground and us relatively unharmed.

I say relatively because as soon as the mugger fired, Clark went right in front of me, made a fist, then collapsed. It was an act of bravery, I guess, until he fainted.

I didn't know that at the time, so I crouched over Clark, examining him. I asked him, "Clark… oh, Clark… are you…?" I thought that he had been shot, seeing how the mugger was aiming the gun right at him. I searched his body, my hands patting his chest in search of a bullet wound.

Clark eyes fluttered open from behind his glasses, which where hanging haphazardly off of his nose. "Wow… I guess I must have fainted or something…" he said, smiling sheepishly. He then looked down at my hands on his chest, and my general close proximity. He blushed, and I quickly pulled away and stood up, dusting off my skirt.

I rolled my eyes, trying to look disgusted. I didn't want Clark to know that I was genuinely worried about him; he might have taken it as a sign that I like-liked him. "Swell," I said, his word rubbing off on me, while I rolled my eyes.

Clark then stood, dusting himself and flattening his tacky brown suit. He than straightened his glasses and said seriously to me, "Really, Lois. Supposing that man had shot you? Is it worth risking your life over ten dollars, two credit cards, a hairbrush, and a lipstick? I mean…"

I cut him off at that point, freaked out by what he just said. "How did you know that?" I asked curiously, still a little out of breath from our ordeal.

He all of the sudden got really nervous, and started pushing up his glasses with his finger. "Know what?"

"You just described the exact contents of my purse," I said suspiciously. Was he spying on me? Did he go through my purse?

He looked away, a sure sign of a liar. "Wild guess," he answered. Then he turned towards the street, "Taxi!"

I shook my head and just dismissed it. After what we had been through, I couldn't think straight. Throughout the whole taxi ride I was silent, except for mumbling a good-bye to Clark as he got off in front of his apartment building. I was still in shock.

When I got back to my apartment, I was barely able to get into the apartment before I collapsed on my couch. I let my purse fall onto the floor, allowing the contents of it to roll loose. I really didn't care; the day was eventful to say the least, and I didn't have the energy to get down and pick everything up.

As I lay down on the couch, a story was already forming in my head. The story of the frightful even that happened to Clark and me. I quickly pulled out my laptop and started typing it up, the words coming easily. Except for one part- I didn't know what to call it. After a few hours of thinking and furious typing and searching online for various synonyms of words, I finally was able to think of a title- "Why the World Needs a Superhero".

I never published the article, even though its still saved on my computer in a folder somewhere. Because the very next day, we got one in the form of a flying, primary-colored spandex-wearing super-powered being from another planet. The article seems irrelevant now, but it serves as an everlasting reminder to me that, as great as _he_ is, _he_ won't always be around.

But still, every night, every morning, every single waking minute I thank whatever higher power there may be for three things: coffee, spell check, and Superman.

**The End **


End file.
